


Blood, Sugar and Magic

by ChocolatePecan



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood, Crystal Magic, Gen, Injury, Last Stand, Running, Status Effects, Video Game Mechanics, fighting daemons, functional accessories, miracle save
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatePecan/pseuds/ChocolatePecan
Summary: Noct is drenched in sweat. The medication Ignis handed him hasn’t made any difference to his temperature, and the daemons and beasts aren’t doing anything for his comfort. The world sways before him, easy like elevator music.“It’s possible they’re attracted to your immune system.” The dagger Ignis embeds in the skull of a Sahagin makes it sigh.“What are you talking about, Specs?”“The magic.” Ignis shakes off his gloves. “Infection raises stress hormones. Stress hormones raise blood sugar. Your intrinsic crystal magic wants to keep you at your optimum, thus rides the blood glucose to heal the body. In other words, your magic is up.”





	Blood, Sugar and Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the anon on the kink meme who offered this prompt. It challenged me, and tested my memory of game mechanics (though I needed the FFXV Complete Official Guide to fill in the many gaps!).
> 
> Thank you also to kay_cricketed, who is still doing an amazing job at ensuring I don't get shy, rip down my fics, and hide in a cave.
> 
> The prompt was:
> 
> 'Right, let’s work some game mechanics into fic, shall we? Let’s say the reason the daemons go after Noct as often as they do (those times when you have to mash buttons to break free) is because they can smell the Crystal’s magic in his blood. Makes him smell especially tasty, idk.
> 
> One night, Noct is especially injured or sick with a fever or something. They’re out of potions and Phoenix downs and Noct’s body is in survival mode. His innate magic is trying to heal himself.
> 
> And it’s driving the daemons crazy. All around camp, they’re sureounded by daemons. Some even managing to crawl their way onto the heaven even though they start burning from the wards.
> 
> It’s a long night.'

_18.34_

Prompto leans in too close for a photograph, and blocks the corner of Ignis’ vision as he slows for the turn. The evening sun’s low and glare is high. The turn at Secullam Pass is tight, and Ignis doesn’t see the recalcitrant truck driver looking at his radio instead of the road.

No disaster is caused by a single mistake.

 

_19.10_

“At least we’re alive,” Prompto says as they trudge along the concrete esplanade of the River Wennath. “And, it’s not raining. And, it wasn’t me.”

“Who didn’t renew the chocobo rental like they were asked to?” Noct’s strides are long as he tries to make up the speed at which his chocobo would travel. She’d sprinted back to the post that lunchtime with a regretful _kweh_.

Prompto ran to get in front. “Okay, that was me,” he says, walking backwards, “But it was all Gladio’s fault!”

Gladio raises an eyebrow. “How’s that now?”

“You challenged me to a game of Justice Monsters Five! What was I supposed to do?”

“Your job?”

They continue to bicker until Noct sneezes loudly. The quiet that falls is as tangible as Ignis’ chiffon cake.

“Great,” Noct says.

Around them, the first spots of rain darken the concrete.

 

_19.35_

“At least we’ll get to see Cindy again,” Prompto calls as he fires a crack shot into a Gaiatoad. “And, it’s bound to stop raining soon!”

“And, we don’t have any potions.” In the encroaching darkness, Ignis is a blur of legs and fire. The Gaiatoad hunkers down in the flames’ shadow.

Noct’s lance hits home, breaking the beast. “Didn’t I ask somebody to get energy drinks at Cauthess?”

“I… believe you may have asked me. I was rather distracted by medication for your impending chest infection.” Ignis pauses to push up his glasses. “My sincerest apologies.”

Gladio roars as he hacks. There’s a tingle of static electricity, enough to erect the hairs on arms and necks before the Gaiatoad flips onto its back in agony and stretches - an attempt to keep life in. Seconds pass, and its tongue rolls across the ground, slick with spit and rain.

“Shit.” Noct surrenders his blade to the armiger.

 

_20.18_

“Ignis! Are we in a danger zone or what?” Noct slashes the nearest Sahagin. Its teeth flash, grisly remnants rotting between each jutting bone. Above them, the firmament glitters where the sun has parted from the sky. “Where are all these nasties coming from?”

The attacks have been constant. The haven is still a good hour away on foot, even sprinting.

“I’m not sure. They seem particularly virulent, it’s true.” Sweat shines on Ignis’ face, skull pendant dancing at his collar as he attacks.

Noct coughs, and the Sahagin he’s battling stops and trembles along the entire length of its body. When it launches itself at him, it’s with a vigour they haven’t seen before. Without Prompto’s bazooka blowing it six feet away Noct would have been locked in its jaws.

“Thanks!”

“No problemo!”

Noct is drenched in sweat. The medication Ignis handed him hasn’t made any difference to his temperature, and the daemons and beasts aren’t doing anything for his comfort. The world sways before him, easy like elevator music.

“It’s possible they’re attracted to your immune system.” The dagger Ignis embeds in the skull of a Sahagin makes it sigh. He doesn’t have time to take a break, as another Sahagin swaggers up to take its place.

“What are you talking about, Specs?”

"The magic,” Ignis says, but before he can finish Gladio has slammed his shield in front of him to ward off an attack, his arm raised high for a strike. The sword breaks the Sahagin, and Gladio growls something unintelligible.

“As I was saying.” Ignis shakes off his gloves. “Infection raises stress hormones. Stress hormones raise blood sugar. Your intrinsic crystal magic wants to keep you at your optimum, thus rides the blood glucose to heal the body. In other words, your magic is up.”

“Does that mean he can’t have chocolate when he’s sick?” Prompto’s concern is disproportionate but honest. Noct’s glad for it though, and claps him on the back with a smile.

“The opposite,” Ignis says. “If he wants to get better quickly he should probably eat more chocolate. Ruinous for anyone else’s immune system, of course.”

Prompto whistles as he twirls his revolver and holsters it in the armiger. “Damn, more and more I wish I was imbued with crystal magic.”

 

_20.23_

They gather to check pockets and leg packs. Between them they don’t have a single plume of phoenix down.

“Haven. Now,” says Gladio. “We can’t afford to play anymore.”

He haunts Noct’s steps as he runs. Noct feels the breeze raising hair on his arms, despite wearing his own wet jacket and Prompto’s gilet. It’s not the most uncomfortable he’s ever been, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt so wretched.

 

_21.14_

They don’t see the Sea Devils in the dark. Gladio is watching the blue wisp of the nearby haven, Ignis is watching Noct’s increasing pallor, Prompto is watching the screen of the MP3 player and Noct is watching his feet go one, then two, one, then two.

Gladio is the first to hear the cackle. His shield summons unconsciously, a body memory programmed into him by endless training. He kicks Noct to his knees behind the shield and summons his sword.

Noct’s leg stretches out too far, tantalising a second Sea Devil. It’s not the first time he’s been dragged up by one and tossed in the air, but the crystal magic pulsing through his veins seems to take this instance personally. It hurts blindingly. Overwhelmingly. His ears pop with it.

He screams and forgets he has weapons, reaching for the Sea Devil’s jaws to pry them open by hand. Ignis is nearby then, recognisable by his well-heeled musk. Noct reaches for him, and his vision is filled with starbursts. Hands take his arms. Something must drive down on the Sea Devil, as it intensifies its grip. The muscle in his calf tears. A synapse in Noct’s brain says _ut-oh_ and floods him with adrenaline. The Sea Dragon shakes him savagely again and tosses its head, releasing the leg only to chomp it further into its mouth.

The jaws in his thigh hurt even more.

Noct hears his name, then feels the maw release him. His heart is causing every artery to pulse, right down to his mid-thigh. It’s not possible to hear blood squirt out of you, he thinks, yet that’s what he hears. It’s almost funny.

_Psssh._

“Oh, Gods.” Prompto’s voice is raw with fear. It triggers alarm in Noct, but he can’t seem to get to his feet.

 

_21.28_

It feels like miles to the haven. Gladio runs like Cerberus is chasing him, with Noct slung on his back. Ignis’ tourniquet is precise and tight, tied around the thigh just under the groin.

Noct’s leg twitches uncontrollably. Every movement leaves a trail of blood on the grass.

 

_21.43_

They don’t have time to set up the tent. The haven’s sigils glow knowingly beneath their feet, but beyond them daemons has sprung up as though from every drop of blood left behind. Iron Giants, Bombs, and Goblins all linger around the haven, pacing like wolves. Their chittering makes it ever harder to hear.

Noct rests on the padded sleep mat from the tent, shaking as adrenaline gobbles up every flake of him. His face is as two scarlet camellias set on a moonstone.

Ignis is the only one to say what they’re all thinking. “He won’t survive the night without curatives.” He covers Noct with a blanket and places his hand on his forehead. It’s still for a moment, but the strokes are instinctive.

“We won’t get out past the daemons.” Gladio says. As though asked for their opinions, their auras brighten.

“We must find a way.” If Noct’s face is a moonstone then Ignis’ is unadorned porcelain.

They’re interrupted by a Goblin on the slope of the haven. Its feet smoke as it reaches the the sacred ground. One foot combusts, and it screams gratingly but only slows its approach.

“What the-“ Gladio doesn’t allow it to get comfortable before he tackles it head on.

“The hell!? I thought havens were supposed to be off-limits to daemons!” Gladio bellows as he whacks it off the haven with his shield. It vaporises, but above the cloud of smoke a Red Giant looks down at them and rumbles.

Prompto’s palms are jammed against his cheeks. “If we’re not safe here, we’re not safe anywhere!”

“Keep it together! The last thing we need is you cracking up!” Gladio says. He snarls up at the looming Red Giant. “Stay out there where I can see you.”

It lifts its leg menacingly as though to stamp.

Ignis gets to his feet and adjusts his gloves. “There’s nothing for it. I’ll head towards Malmalam Thicket. I have no doubt Kimya will be able to provide the necessary treatments.”

Gladio’s judgement of the plan is instant. “Don’t be an idiot! You won’t make it on your own!”

“We don’t have a choice! If we don’t get treatment for Noct he _will_ die!”

Prompto kneels beside his best friend. It needles to see him this vulnerable, teeth and fists clenched unconsciously to ward off pain. Blood picks its way out from beneath the blanket, tracking across the dirt and oozing into the grooves of the nearest sigil.

When Noct had flopped back into his sofa and told him he should come on this road trip, Prompto’s heart and body had finally come into alignment. He’d doubled-down on his training; working harder at the gym, arriving early for drills with Cor, trying to forget that this was meant to be the final bachelor’s huzzah. He wants to be what Noct needs, whenever he needs it, because only in being indispensable can any argument be made to keep him around.

He hasn’t been much good at being indispensable so far. He eats through their curatives like a kid in a sugar shack and keeps getting in trouble with snake monsters. He wasn’t even looking out for Noct when the Sea Devil ripped through his leg.

Iggy has healing skills that would put a doctor to shame, and can nurse Noct to keep him alive. Gladio has strength and fighting prowess in spades and will use them to provide shelter. Both men are indispensable.

There is just one thing Prompto can do to help now, though it’s something he does well.

“I’ll do it.” Prompto trains his eyes onto Noct’s sweating face, and to the agonised rise and fall of his chest. He senses Gladio and Ignis both turn their heads to face him. He doesn’t look up. “Me. I’ll make the run.”

 

_21.59_

They don’t try to dissuade him because they know he’s right. Prompto smiles and accepts it because when you’re right, you’re right.

Ignis hands Prompto a red choker. The pendulum he puts in Prompto’s chest pocket, fingers nimble on the button. His face is rigid.

“Come on, Iggy, don’t look like that. I used to endurance run for fun! It’ll be a blast!”

Ignis doesn’t crack a smile. “Keep enemies on your right, it’s your strongest side. Don’t engage them. Just run.”

Gladio punches him lightly in the shoulder. The sting of it hurts good. “You’d better get back here pronto, Prompto. I don’t want to be the one explaining to Princess that his bestie got knocked off.”

“Have you ever known me not to respond to His Master’s Voice?”

Gladio’s expression shifts to dark concern. “Me and Iggy’ll clear you a path. Run fast. If you don’t make it, none of us will.”

“Don’t stop. Gotcha!” Prompto shakes out his legs and jumps up and down on the spot. He takes a moment too long to stretch, and the fear rises.

Look after him, Iggy,” he says as he makes his way to the slope.

“Do you doubt me?”

“Never.” Prompto smiles over his shoulder at the two men, one broad and brave, one lean and smart. It’s not a bad image to be left with. “That’s what I like about you.”

 

_22.07_

Noct’s dream is twisted. Gone are the images of his childhood; the Regalia, balloons, squeaky hammers. Everything is blood red. Even inside the Citadel the décor is bleak. On the way to the throne room Noct passes tusks erupting from corridor walls, animalistic mouths and eyes appearing and disappearing in the pattern of the wallpaper.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. The message reads: _Hold on. The magic will keep you going and your friends will come through. Just keep believing._ Carbuncle’s furry form treads the floorboards beside him, and the horn on his forehead glints in the reddening light.

Noct’s feet don’t take him to the throne room. The royal chapel, shielded by black ironwork from the rest of the cathedral, is empty but for a wooden bench and a new painting. It makes good use of gold and midnight blue, a welcome change from black and red. The moon is rising at its pinnacle. In the centre, a smiling man is stepping off a haven into a pulsing sea of daemons. He’s bright against the darkness. He looks so much like Prompto that Noct summons his sword in agitation without meaning to.

The painting’s inky frame spreads, darkening every corner of the room.

 

_22.16_

Gladio throws his sword down on the latest daemon to chance the climb: a Glamhoth. It screams, but these things are wily and harder than they look. They’re fast too, and to get him back it tries to pick his pocket. They’re both out of luck, because there are no potions to steal. Without Noct to enchant the items he finds, Gladio can’t even scavenge anything useful from his battles.

So far there have been thirteen Thunder Bombs, nine Goblins, five Ereshkigals, a single Tonberry, and the Glamhoth screaming its last as he stamps on it to break its back. Its buddies are still gaggling around the lighting ore.

He’s still doing okay, though. He’s got this. The wound on his leg will heal up nicely with a potion when Prompto gets back, and he gave the Red Giant with the shitty attitude just as good as he got. As long as Iggy can keep the stragglers off his back and help Noct, everything will work out.

Beyond the hordes the night sky offers a low, bright moon. It’ll do Prompto no favours. Gladio watches the Glamhoths baring their teeth at him and fighting amongst themselves.

He’s noticed that the daemons don’t gang up to rush the haven. Gladio knows that if they do, he, Iggy and Noct will all be dead. Whatever they’re here for, whether it’s Noct or something else, they’re also in competition for it. He’s glad for that. It means that as long as they keep coming one by one or in small groups, he can take them. He can do this all night if he has to.

And they do keep coming.

 

_22.41_

Ignis wraps Noct’s wound again. Over and over, so all that’s left is a leg so white they could lose him on tundra. Being able to consider the tactical benefit of any action is a boon, but it means having to consider all possible outcomes while trying not to linger. He’s already considered that Noct might suffer a stroke or lose his leg because of the tourniquet, but blood loss will kill him in less than half an hour if it’s removed. It will take Prompto at least another two hours to get to the House of Hexes and back on foot, and that’s if he’s survived thus far. Ignis considers whether he should have given him additional accessories, but he can only carry two. Perhaps he should have given him the Star Pendant, instead of the pendulum, to protect from poisoning. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Ignis could stitch the wounds closed, but he’s not a surgeon and with their depleted first aid supplies he doesn’t even have saline to clean them. There is almost certainly nerve damage that he doesn’t have the skill to repair. The risk of infection is astoundingly high.

Noct’s heartbeat is already too fast, his breathing too effortful. Since he’s unconscious, Ignis can’t even get him to take a drink to ease the dehydration crinkling his lips. Instead, with the noise of Gladio battling and the racket of the daemons all around, he strokes the hair away from Noct’s forehead, and rests his bare hand on his crown.

The wounds the four sustained earlier in the evening on the path to the haven were small and easily forgotten. Now the wounds keep multiplying. The gash on Gladio’s shoulder slicks his tattoo red, but until he dispatches the Garchimacera he’s fighting there’s little Ignis can do about it.

His eyes settle on an Imp crawling over the edge of the haven, close to Noct’s feet. It jeers.

“Looks like it’s you and me, then.” Ignis summons his lance and uses the north star to guide his leap into the air. The lance glints as he spins it, and as gravity tugs he jams it down towards the imp.

 

_22.53_

Prompto is starting to slow. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and doesn’t have any easy energy left to burn. There’s an almost tangible click to his body’s switch to burning glycogen stores. When it gets to burning muscle protein he’s going to feel dizzy and sick. It’ll be hard to breathe. One morning, back in Insomnia, he ran too far on an empty stomach and the world tipped over to drop him on his ass. He’d stayed on his back in the grass, his knees in the air and the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, until another runner stopped to help him up.

That won’t happen here. There isn’t anyone to help him if he drops.

The chill of that thought goes straight to his spine.

The moon is full, and in the light of it he sees a pack of Havocfangs prowling beneath a tree. Their crooked bodies churn as he catches their attention, and the light glints over their bony spines. Havocfangs are agile, and Prompto draws his revolver without slowing.

A single Havocfang draws out from the pack, pacing towards him.

Prompto never forgets how many bullets he has left in the cylinder. Doing that will kill him. He has three, and knows that two to the face and one to the shoulder will slow the Havocfang down and give him time to reload. He can’t be the first to attack, though. Only one Havocfang is showing an interest. Preemptively shooting that one will cause the others to attack.

His smile is grim, because he knows that spirit well.

The moon seems to spin through a phase in just a few seconds, a month of a life spent running. The Havocfang gets further away and falls back, returning to its pack. Prompto looks over his shoulder to make sure he’s clear of them, trying not to slow. The revolver glimmers as he returns it to the armiger.

When the panic starts to pass he puts a hand on the pendulum and feels his spirit rise. He’s no longer expendable. His bros need him to do this.

He speeds up. Tired or not, he’s a fast runner. He’ll be fine. He can do this.

 

_23.01_

Noct doesn’t recognise the layout of the dream Citadel. He’s looking for his solar so he can sleep – how can he want to sleep when he’s asleep? The walls bend in above him like a vault, the ceiling too far away to be seen. Only blackness appears in the space between. Beside him the wallpaper rustles as things in the shape of cockroaches run underneath it.

Carbuncle is ever-present at his side. _You don’t have to be here. We can go somewhere better._

“No. I have to stay.” He knows this like he knows he has to keep moving when they’re drenched and the cold Cleigne nights are drawing in, but he doesn’t know why.

The door leading to Noct’s suite is dripping with water. He clicks it open, only to find that the room beyond is the grand dining hall, not a bedroom. The windows are blinded as though a death has occurred. Above the gilded seat at the head of the long oak table is another painting.

In it a man kneels, head lowered, hands shining with white-green light. His right hand is on a prone body, and his left holds a spear. Above them both looms an Iron Giant, monstrous and as tall as the moon.

There’s no mistaking the graceful form of Ignis, a man who can do a backflip like he did one from the womb.

Noct looks at Carbuncle. “Tell me what’s happening outside.”

 

_23.24_

Gladio remembers the actions of the katas as Cor taught them to him, back when he was still using a wooden sword. Cleave down to the chin. Pivot on toes. Right-hand cleave to the face, then thrust to the solar plexus. None of the daemons have faces as intended by the instructions, but doesn’t matter. If it screams and backs off, he’s doing it right.

His own face is bleeding. Something got in a good swipe when he was blocking a blow from the other side, and now his eye stings. Iggy did his best with his shoulder, too, but it’s a little on the slow-moving side – maybe a tendon’s ripped. The thought makes him angry. If it starts to heal up before Prompto gets back, it’ll be slow and sore for weeks.

The Yojimbo doesn’t climb in front of Gladio like the other daemons. It just appears in a puff of smoke, sword in hand. It seems to tip its head towards Noct as it flicks its katana, resting it on its shoulder. _Think you can protect him?_

Gladio feels his rage rise to its maximum. “I’ve been doing it since he was eight years old, you bastard! Come on then!”

He’s never seen a daemon smile before, a twist on the upper lip. The Yojimbo raises its sword and rushes him.

 

_00.11_

Ignis is on his feet just as Gladio tips his head skywards, chest heaving, sword clanging to the sacred ground. Blood spatters over the blade. The Snaga before him cackles and grabs for his ankle, teeth bared, but Ignis intercepts it with a deft flick of his daggers and kicks it off the haven. Gladio leans into him as Ignis grasps his arm.

“Are you all right?” Ignis asks, steadying him. Gladio moves to crouch and Ignis goes with him, one hand on his back. Gladio breathes deeply for a moment or two, then propels himself back his feet.

He grimaces. “Heh. Am now. You?”

“A few scratches.” Ignis has a gash on his upper chest from a Ronin’s attack, and if he inspects his midriff he’s sure he’ll find something he doesn’t like.

“And Noct?” Gladio asks.

“Holding his own.” Ignis looks back at his charge: still prone, still pale. Something that doesn’t belong, with sharp hands that glow green, is kneeling beside him.

Instinct overwrites any strategic planning. The Lich leans over Noct and opens its mouth, and Ignis doesn’t bother to think anything at all because every cell is busy screaming _get it off_. He’s faster than Gladio, there’s less bulk to move, and he drives the Lich off with the right, digs a dagger into its ribs with the left. It tilts its head and breathes over him, and like that he can’t feel the buzz of his loaned magic anymore.

The Lich yanks his arms down and plants its hands around his throat. Ignis thrusts both daggers into its chest, pushing it away, but its grip tightens. Ignis feels his legs start to go numb, but hears Gladio’s roar beside him. There’s the flash of a black eagle before him and Ignis senses the weight of a broadsword as Gladio swings it down, severing the Lich from its hands. It dissolves without a noise.

“You all right?” Gladio asks, his rage still written in the lines on his face. His grip is firm and grounding on Ignis’ shoulder. Ignis nods, clutching his burning throat.

 

_00.32_

Prompto can’t outrun everything. He didn’t see the Killer Bees nesting in the trees as he paused to get rid of a stitch and a full bladder. Don’t stop – he’d said it to Gladio himself. Cor had taught him: _when you’re awake, you’re at your most vulnerable when you eat, take a toilet break, or mate._ He’d broken his own first rule.

Now he’s stopped again to throw up, though all he has left in him is bile. Every second he’s still is another second at increased risk. The Killer Bee that poisoned him has left the stinger in his shoulder and it hurts like a bitch. He tries again to get purchase on it to pull it out, but it’s barbed and yanking it might spread the poison. He can’t see straight, and can’t blink both eyes at the same time. He wants to go to his knees and take a break so he can chuck up properly, but the resounding alarm at the back of his head tells him if he does that he’s toast.

Somewhere to his left he hears a low growl and remembers what Iggy told him: _keep enemies on your right, it’s your strongest side_. He heaves and spits and summons his revolver. He’s almost there, he’s sure of it. He’s passed the Maidenwater and crossed the bridge into the Malmalam Thicket, all he has to do is find his way to Kimya’s place.

He forces himself to breathe through the panic, throat feeling swollen and tight. He can do this. He can still do this. He pushes himself away from the tree, casting around for the source of the growl. He doesn’t see it, and that’s more of a worry than a comfort.

 

_01.03_

Noct stalks the blackening corridors of the Citadel. It’s barely recognisable as the place he grew up. As he treads down into the lower levels the stairs tip beneath his feet, widening and narrowing as if to trick him out of his path.

“How bad is it? Tell me.” Noct asks, looking at Carbuncle’s lowered head.

 _There’s nothing you can do but conserve your energy._ Carbuncle’s tail bobs up and down as he leads the way down the pulsating staircase. The click of beetles increases as they enter the labyrinthine lower levels of the building.

Noct steps into the glowing safe spots Carbuncle leaves behind as he trots. “There’s no point in having magic if I can’t save my friends with it!”

_You won’t be able to keep the magic if you lose your body._

Noct doesn’t care much for his body right now. He reaches the doorway to what he thinks is the hidden escape route from the Citadel. The handle turns easily under his hand, but as he enters the room it morphs into the armoury. There are spears and javelins and shields lined up around him in the unnatural, bleak glow of the room.

On the far wall there is another new painting in yellow and blue. He knows the giant of a man at the centre of the haven all too well, remembers when he got the eagle tattoo so obvious on his back. Gladio’s shield is jammed into the ground and a sword is raised above his head, perpendicular to the golden moon. He is surrounded by daemons, and an Imp has its teeth in his shoulder. The only red in the painting is the blood trickling from the wound.

 _I know what they mean to you._ Carbuncle’s delicate paws are no weight at all on Noct’s calf.

“You don’t if you won’t let me help them.” There was no point in surviving if they didn’t. He’d never make it, and more than that he wouldn’t want to. “Ignis told me my magic was up. I must be able to use that for something.”

 _It will tax you too much_.

“I’ll pay the price. Just tell me what I have to do.”

 

_01.37_

Gladio’s been rescued more times than he can remember, which means it’s many more times than he’d like. He can’t think about how long he’s been fighting non-stop, nor the pangs of his empty stomach, or the blood that coats his chest and soaks his combat pants to the knee. Nor can he think about Noct’s increasingly noisy breathing, or what might have happened to Prompto that’s making him take so long. Thinking about those things will distract him from his work, and there is still so much work to be done.

“This is getting boring!” he shouts to Iggy, partly to make sure he’s still alive.

The answer is slow in coming, and laboured when it does. “Agreed.”

He turns to check on his friend only to see a Mindflayer between them. “Behind you!”

His feet are on the turn just as Iggy sees it. He watches his friend surrender his daggers to the armiger and summon a polearm instead.

Over the Mindflayer’s shoulder Gladio nods. Together, they pincer move the Mindflayer, but it’s not as easy as it should be.

The strength goes out of Iggy as Gladio watches, the Mindflayer mollifying him. The polearm drops for a second too long. The daemon opens its tentacles and snatches, wrapping him tightly, and despite Gladio’s attempt to free him he can’t see him anymore. Not even his feet are visible beneath the tentacles. The Mindflayer has consumed him whole.

Here, on this godsforsaken outcrop of land where everything is fast going to shit, Gladio will not lose Ignis Scientia, logistician and friend. The roar he gives shakes him to the toes, and he thrusts his sword at the Mindflayer.

The bastard talks with Iggy’s voice. “Gladio! You’re confused! You must stop!”

But Gladio won’t be tricked, and raises his sword for another assault.

 

_01.38_

Ignis has skipped away from two of Gladio’s swings, but he can’t summon a shield and he’s not as spry as he was an hour ago. Against Gladio’s singular strength all he can do is block with his spear. It’s not enough. He’s on his knees, and within a few swings he’ll be done for unless Gladio comes back to himself.

“Gladio, please!”

“Don’t talk, bastard!”

None of this is helped by the Mindflayer’s continuing presence on the haven. It edges towards Noct, and what passes for its hands reach for his chest. Noct doesn’t flinch. His unconsciousness is total.

Ignis has less than three seconds to make a decision.

He can continue to block the sword pressing down on his spear and preserve his own life, or he can throw the spear at the Mindflayer and hope it’s enough to save Noct.

In the end there’s no choice at all.

He tips the spear to the left, causing Gladio’s sword to slide on the metal staff. He risks his fingers in doing so, but it’s worth it. A greatsword is an incredible and devastating weapon but hard to right quickly, even with Gladio’s strength. He blocks Gladio’s wrist as he drops forward and pushes it out of the way, gripping it tightly. It won’t hold Gladio long – he’s too good a martial artist – but all Ignis needs is time to right the spear and throw it at the Mindflayer.

Direct hit.

The Mindflayer crumples and dissolves into spores. Beside Ignis, Gladio’s greatsword cracks the ground of the haven.

“Iggy…” Gladio’s expression communicates his horror in precise detail.

“No harm done.” Ignis offers a hand. “Help me up.”

If he’d had a fourth second to plan it might have occurred to him that the status ailment would dissipate when the Mindflayer did.

But it’s been a long night.

 

_02.03_

Prompto’s getting déjà vu. He’s passed the tree struck by lightning before,he’s sure of it. He stops to lean against it, Cor’s advice now a distant memory. He took a wrong turn a while back, sure, but he thought he’d fixed that now. Is he circling?

He can’t be circling.

The poison is making his chest throb, and he wants to curl up and go to sleep. He’s cold and hot, cold and hot in turn, and even the patch of grass beneath the tree looks like it could be a good place to spend the hours until morning. The moon must’ve gone in, or whatever moons do, because he can’t see much anymore. Maybe it’s just the trees. There are a lot of trees. So many trees.

He managed to kill three of the Soldier Wasps that attacked him on his sojourn down the wrong path, but the fourth got him good and he ran. Blood slicks his arm and drips off his fingertips. He might still be confused. He’s probably still confused. That’s all it is. His hands tremble against the tree. All he can hear is his own breathing, hard and arrhythmic.

Something more animalistic in him than Cor’s warning says: _you have to move_.

But he can’t.

If he moves, then he’ll know whether the growling behind him is real.

If it’s real, he will have to fight it.

Prompto pushes himself off the tree with a cry and summons his revolver. He turns, but he can’t see anything behind him. It’s strange that the growling doesn’t stop, though. He’s unsure on his feet as he treads toward the source of the noise, gun cradled in both hands and ready to fire.

When he emerges from the bank of trees, the source of the growling becomes clear. Prompto’s groan is instinctive. He lowers the gun and hits himself in the face with it.

He’s back at the bridge over the water.

He's gone full circle.

“Here we go round the mulberry bush… the mulberry bush…” Prompto’s laugh is fractured. He has to turn back to the lightning tree and try again. He has to. The others still need him to pull through.

But he knows in his heart of hearts that he’s a mess. He can’t focus his thoughts on anything, not even his next move. He’s bleeding, a lot, and that will bring more beasts out of the shadows after him. He’s easy pickings.

He’s not going to be okay. He’s going to die.

 

_02.14_

The throne room isn’t as Noct remembers. Mostly he remembers it for causing his father misery, those tall windows shedding light that never seemed to reach his father’s eyes. But even the other rooms can’t compare to this. The walls are melting, the grand paintings and ornate metalwork dissolving as though the sand beneath the Citadel is dragging 2000 years of Lucian royalty and all of its hubris back into the ground.

Noct doesn’t approach the throne. Instead, he gets to his knees on the floor at the bottom of the stairs in seiza, both hands on his thighs. Carbuncle paces before him.

_You must let me help you._

“I could use it. Thanks.” Noct puts his phone in a pocket.

He closes his eyes and feels Carbuncle’s paws on his knee. He breathes.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He senses what the dream world has been hiding from him, in the veins of the body left somewhere beyond his ethereal vision. His blood feels thick and hot, too hot, like it will strike out of him to wrap him in a scarlet cocoon. With a start he’s taken back to the Marilith attack, its mouth jeering, and like he’s been struck down again his dream body takes the hit and folds. He is nowhere then, nowhere and everywhere. His mind tingles and he feels something else rushing through the body still somewhere far distant. It’s in the blood itself and more than simple cells and plasma, more than the many injuries he’s sustained in battle: the clean blue thrum of magic.

 

_02.18_

Gladio is on his knees before Iggy reaches him. His hand on his back revives him a small amount, and the advice to keep at it and do what he can bolsters his spirits, but he can still hardly stand. He’ll fight until he dies, but by gods he won’t die on his knees. At least he’ll take the bastards with him. Moving one foot at a time he rises, letting Iggy palm an elbow and urge him up. He doesn’t look so good himself, shirt mostly shredded and his chest heaving.

Iggy surrenders his daggers to the armiger and drops to one knee. He lifts the leg of his trousers, and the Champion’s Anklet glints against his sock. He unclips it. The drawing in of his cheeks is immediate as what little vitality he has diminishes.

Gladio growls, “Put that back on.”

“It’s more powerful than yours.” Iggy extends his hand, the anklet swinging.

“That doesn’t matter!”

“In a fight Noct needs his shield more than he needs his chamberlain.” Iggy gets to his feet unsteadily and presses the anklet into Gladio’s hand. “We’re past pretences now.”

The look they share is a matching one of regret. Prompto has been gone too long and they’re both at breaking point. Gladio doesn’t think of the tiny funnyman broken somewhere out there in the dark, because it’s too much of a distraction.

Ignis takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I should have given Prompto better accessories. I was saving the best for Noct but it was short-sighted of me. I’ve damned us all.”

Gladio hefts his sword over his shoulder. “Shit, Iggy. I expect better of you.” Ignis looks at him, perplexed.

All night the daemons that surround them have watched their brethren destroyed in a show of overpowering aggression issued by just two men. The best have all been picked off. The remainder seem weak and uncertain as they mill around on the periphery.

“All the time we’re standing it’s not over,” Gladio says. He says it in contrary to the way he must look, and the way his body hurts. He says it in contrary to the moon having passed over its pinnacle and the five hours of constant fighting they’ve already managed.

Gladio knows Prompto looks like a puff of wind will knock him down. The kid won’t be told that he needs to keep his feet on the ground for stability. He doesn’t have the discipline to be 100% present in battle. He’s flighty, and has the attention span of a chickatrice, but he’s as dedicated to Noct as he and Iggy are. There’s iron at the core.

“Put this back on.” Gladio hands Iggy the anklet. “We’re not done yet.”

 

_02.20_

Ignis’s fingers are light on Noct’s blanket. His charge is still so thoroughly unconscious that he can’t know he’s being tended. Regardless, Ignis acts as though he does, checking the thickly layered bandages with care. He places one palm on Noct’s head and two fingers under his chin, and tilts back just slightly. Open the airway further. There’s no harm in it.

Noct’s cheeks are no longer red. Apart from a tiny pinprick on each cheek there’s no warmth in his face. The only sign of life is that laboured breathing. It’s tiring to listen to. It must be even more tiring to experience.

He toys with the idea of lying beside Noct to watch the stars roll over their proscenium sky. But what he really wants to do is save him, and that won’t help.

Ignis isn’t a praying man. He’s never been able to conceptualize all powerful beings with no empathy. The gods may be powerful masters of the cosmos, but the cost to Noct of borrowing their power is too much. They haven’t even come through for him now. Instead they leave him lying here to die on the supposedly sacred ground of a haven. Surely he doesn’t have to ask them for help in specific terms? Surely they know of his trial and should just aid him? If this isn’t a time when he needed the power of the gods then there will never be a time. Or is their power only loaned when their chosen can say please?

All the things asked of his friend are too much; the bearing of the crown, the loss of his kingdom, his father, his betrothed, his health. Dying here is asking more than too much.

Ignis allows Gladio’s hollow kiais to puncture his thoughts. He knows the pattern by now; the kiais thin out, then they silence, then Gladio crouches or falls. He can’t have more than one fight left in him.

Ignis isn’t sure he even has that.

He thinks it’s his imagination when Noct’s blanket moves and bloodless fingers slip out from beneath the rough-cut green. His eyes are as bright as they ever were in the ivory of his face.

“Ignis… Please,” he whispers. But Noct never needs to beg Ignis. He’s already fully present, Noct’s fingers clasped in his own.

 

_02.39_

The lamplight at Kimya’s window makes Prompto tearful. He’s here. He’s finally here. There are no lights in the Malmalam Thicket but this one, maybe no lights in the entire world, and never was a light more needed.

He pounds on her door. Each blow seems to draw out more energy until there’s barely enough left to breathe. He buries his face in his elbow and rests up against the wooden barrier, heaving breaths like he can count down to the last.

“Pleasepleaseplease, help me, help me, help me…”

When Kimya opens her door wrapped in her hood and cloak, light flooding out into the thicket, Prompto misses her by inches as he thumps to the floor. He rests where he falls. Takes a breath. Tries to turn onto his back, but can’t. He tries to talk, but can’t.

If he can’t talk, he’s past help.

“Badly hurt you are, dearie.” Kimya’s voice comes in waves. “Inside, you must come.”

The cooling relief of the potion spilling over him fills every sense with a gentle buzz. In that moment it’s the most incredible feeling in Eos. He can get to his feet, he can see straight, and the echo of his own heart passes into memory.

Kimya tells him to sit at the table, so he does. When in somebody else’s house, it’s always good to do as you’re asked. The single-room hut is filled with dried herbs and plants, stacked high along the back wall. They’re joined by jars of thick, dark liquid and blue water with a curious lumincesence. He’s watching them as she hands him an antidote. He sips it slowly. Kimya doesn’t warn him when she removes the stinger from his shoulder and he bites down on the neck of the bottle sharply. He holds his mouth as pain whips through his teeth.

“Sorry I am, dearie.” She spills another potion, and what’s left of his pain vanishes.

He doesn’t have time to relish the feeling, only time to explain.

 

The witch is kind. She doesn’t charge for the curatives he needed to save his life, only the ones he takes with him. He buys as many as he can carry.

She doesn’t ask if he’s hungry. Instead she offers him a few bites of something that tastes like Ignis’ smoked behemoth. It might be the best thing he’s ever eaten, even better than Iggy’s dinner would have been if they’d been able to have it. He feels as though he’s not tired at all despite the long night. The snack makes his legs restless, driving him to run again. Kimya wraps more of the meat, and the package juts out from the top of the shoulder bag. He’ll be able to eat it on the run.

In return she asks just one thing of him.

“Need this for the haven, you will.” She shakes an unusually ornate potion bottle before him. “Careful, you must be. Wearing off, the magic is. Protect other travellers, you will. Saved like your friend, they shall be.”

Taking that as his excusal, Prompto kisses her cheek. He catches the doorframe as he runs, looking back just long enough to say “Thank you!” before disappearing into the night.

 

_03.00_

Noct only remembers being in this much pain once before. There are three standout memories of the Marilith attack: the twisted leer of the monster, the empty eyes of his nurse, and the confusion of laying in his own blood. Pain is not a direct memory, but his body remembers. This new pain is a stencilled copy of the grinding agony he was in then, pain he thought might split him in two.

He grits his teeth and suffers it, even as his leg throbs so badly he wants to ask Ignis to chop it off.

The night sky above is lit by the purple hue of daemons and Ignis’ worried expression as he shouts something to Gladio. But Noct can also see the melting throne room and the stairs to the seat of power. It’s like some kind of interdimensional double-vision. Pain isn’t the only thing he can feel, either, and the light pressure of Carbuncle’s paws on his knees is a crux to focus his energy on. In the real world, Ignis’ hand in his does the same job.

He and the crystal don’t exchange words. The deal is sealed with nothing more than blood heat and a sinking feeling.

The magic doesn’t need him to talk, but Ignis does. Noct squeezes his fingers as hard as he can, anything to get and keep his attention. He’ll get only one chance to speak.

“Get… Gladio…”

His skewed reality teeters to the side as Ignis runs to Gladio’s side as a daemon makes fast moves towards him. Gladio’s moving too slowly. He’s too tired. The Imp doesn’t even use a weapon, just its claws, as it stabs its hand into Gladio’s midriff with a sprinkle of blood and pulls.

Alarm prickles Noct at the sight of his shield laid low. Ignis lashes the Imp with a single dagger, once, twice, again: don’t get up, don’t get up. The Imp is small and insultingly weak, and Ignis dispatches it quicky. After hours of fighting, though, Gladio is the weaker one.

Noct concentrates on breathing as Gladio crumples to one knee, one arm crooked across his stomach. His hand remains fixed in place as his shoulders heave. That’s not a wound you can come back from. Not there. Not without fast medical help, or phoenix down.

Fingers extending until they take up most of his vision, Noct reaches for his friends as Ignis drags Gladio across the haven. He takes a step for himself only once in every three. It’s arduous, and bloody, and even with the last of their energy they jam each other upright with every step.

Noct won’t be able to hold on to reality much longer. They must come closer faster.

 

_03.01_

_Now_ Gladio’s done. Yesterday – hell, even this morning – some phoenix down and he’d have been right back in there. But there isn’t any phoenix down. There’s not even a way to make more.

The Imp hasn’t punctured the stomach, which is a blessing, but if Gladio moves his hand he’ll give new meaning to the word ‘gutless’. When he sees Noct watching them stumble towards him he’s moved by the furrowed brow, the worried mouth, the outstretched hand. That’s not the look of somebody worried about their own life. A corner of his mouth lilts briefly: _did my job the best I could_.

Ignis drops him at Noct’s side, going down heavily to his own knees. There’s an increase in the clatterbang of the stinking, turbid daemons as they start to climb the sides of the haven unimpeded.

Gladio had thought that he’d go down to a Behemoth, or a Red Giant, or even an Elder Couerl. An Imp hadn’t even made it onto the list of things that might take him out.  
“Hah.” But that’s all he can manage.

He won’t die on his knees, but he’ll accept dying on his ass. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of choice. Pain starts to replace adrenaline, and he could do with a lie down, but if there’s anything at all he can still do to protect Noct, he will. Upright it is. He shifts a little closer to his dying king.

Gladio indulges himself with a thought of Iris, strong, brave little sister that she is. She’s been acclimatised to the likelihood of his death in service since she could talk, but he can’t help thinking he’s let her down on this stupid rock, too.

 

_03.02_

Ignis finally gets to lay beside Noct and watch the stars. There’s no point in anything else now. The haven is cold on his sweating back, but it’s nice to finally rest. When he looks beneath his shirt it’s to find that what he thought was a slash is actually a sucking chest wound.

No wonder he can’t breathe properly.

“Hold… onto… me,” Noct forces. Ignis can only give Noct succour now. There are no other practical acts left in him, so he offers his hand. Noct grips it tightly. Gladio reaches too, putting his palm on Noct’s shoulder.

An Imp leers in Ignis’ ear. He considers wringing its neck as final act of reckoning, but before he can do so the night sky above him disappears in a flash of white light, settling quickly to a wash of sky blue. Silence is immediate, like the few seconds before consuming sleep.

Noct’s voice echoes in the zero space.

_We’ll be safe in here for a while._

Ignis tries to sit up, but his body seems to have stopped paying any attention to his will. “This can’t be crystal magic?” His voice sounds distorted, but he thinks it more likely the chest wound’s doing than anything to do with his surroundings. He reaches for the blue light, but it seems to bend away from him.

_Busy, Specs, don’t talk._

Gladio’s voice echoes. “You’re protecting us?”

 _Not if you don’t stop talking_. Noct appears to be asleep again, and his lips don’t move although his voice surround them in their magical bubble.

“Shielding your shield? Fancy.” Gladio looks up at the roof of the cocoon. Ignis follows his gaze, and above the blue he can just make out daemon attack after daemon attack. None of them come close to breaking through the dome.

Ignis watches a Goblin as it tries to chew its way in. Another Goblin licks the blue but its tongue becomes plastered to it, as though it were licking an icicle. The daemon grows frantic. Its jerky movements remind Ignis of somebody.

“Prompto isn’t coming, Noct. If you’re waiting for him- ”

_Give him a break already. He’ll be here. He’s just a hardcore fan of ‘in the nick of time’ endings._

 

_04.49_

Prompto can’t remember anything except the previous eight steps. There are no memories before the rhythm of the run. His brain keeps telling him to take a load off, that he’s tired and he’s going to feel this tomorrow, but he knows he mustn’t stop. The bag is heavy on his shoulder even though he’s made his way through half the meat. He should save the rest for the guys.

The sky ahead is lightening but dawn is still a few hours away.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

 _Please_ , he thinks, _please let me be in time_.

He’s not sure he remembers exactly where the haven was. The early dawn bends the world into intricate patterns that often aren’t the same in the full light of day.

But he keeps going.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

One, two-

The wisp of the haven comes into view.

Three, four, five, six-

Between the scrub, he sees the daemons that scrabble over the outcrop. They pile over one another, a seething jam of wicked intent.

There’s no sign of the guys at all. Not so much as a shirt.

Prompto stops, and the second he does the run overwhelms him. He folds over himself, breathless, hands on his thighs. He didn’t know despair could sound the way it does when it bursts out of him.

In his final Crownsguard training report, Cor had said:

_Prompto is prone to panic in unfamiliar or stressful situations. He would do well to trust his gut more often. Doing so makes him highly resourceful._

His gut said, _everyone who ever made you happy is dead_.

His gut said, _you’re too late_ , you fool.

But it also said: _what, are you giving up before you know what’s happened? Are you really going to stand there and freak out when there’s even a small chance you could do something? Keep it together!_

“No. No way. No way in hell whatsoever, no. We are _not_ done here!”

Prompto crouches at the bag he dropped in his distress. He digs inside, and his hands quickly find the ornate potion bottle. It’s long at one end and thick at the other – a lot like bazooka ammo. The tensile strength of glass might be a problem, but it feels thick and solid enough, made for hunters running around and getting in fights. He holds the long end and gives it a few whacks into his hand.

He isn’t Gladio, and he won’t get close enough to the haven on foot before the daemons put him out.

“The glass cannon firing glass ammo? Life imitates RPGs imitating life!”

He can’t wait to tell Noct, then has to quickly steel himself against the rush of emotions that thought brings.

The bazooka summons as easily as it ever did, and it clicks in the back of his mind that it might not if Noct wasn’t still alive. The thought bolsters him, and as he puts it on his shoulder and aims he hopes to the gods that the glass will hold.

He gets the haven in his crosshairs. Half-light isn’t helping, but he gets a lock on and fires with a familiar shhdunk. The glass bottle survives launch, sailing in an arc across the early dawn. As it reaches its zenith it takes on a delicate blue hue. Prompto can’t tear his eyes away. On its downward spiral it spins, slowing but not stopping. Most of the daemons don’t notice. Only one looks up.

Prompto can’t hear the glass smash from here, but he knows when it does. Where the bottle lands there is a stutter of blue light and then a cannonball of it, shooting straight up into the sky. It sears through the daemons still teeming on the haven, tipping some off of it and obliterating others completely.

Prompto returns the bazooka to the armiger and raises both arms.

“Wooooooohoooooo!!”

There are still a handful of Grenades bumbling near the haven, but the rest of the daemons are backing off. They don’t like encroaching daylight, and whatever the potion contains they don’t like that, either.

Prompto takes a breath and holds it as he sees there’s still no sign of his friends. Instead of their familiar frames and battle poses, there is a dome of glowing blue light at the centre of the haven.

The bag feels heavier than ever. So do his feet. He pays no mind to the single Grenade hovering with a growl. He just keeps his eyes on the prize.

When daemons die they spread black spores that fade out quickly. When humans die they leave bodies and blood that don’t. Prompto has to hold his breath as he climbs the haven because there is blood. Lots of blood. So much blood.

He rests a hand on the dome cautiously. It’s warm and it makes his palm tingle. It’s all in his head, for sure, but it seems to like him just as next door’s cat does. So, like next door’s cat, he pets it. The other hand finds its way to the dome too. He can see something moving inside. Beneath the pulsing outline of blue he can just make out-

“Noct!”

Like he’s burst a balloon the dome snaps away, and Prompto is left standing with his three friends at hisfeet. They’re a mess. Ignis has his eyes closed and his hand over his chest. Noct’s eyes are open and staring. Gladio is frozen still like he’s been preserved in a museum.

For the second time, Prompto thinks he’s too late. For the second time, grief burns out the core of him like a nuclear bomb.

A muscle twitches in Gladio’s face.

“You gonna heal us… or what?” he says, flicking his gaze up to meet Prompto’s.

 

_09.23_

Noct sneezes as he rests against the Regalia, legs crossed. Ignis is taking a long time at the Coernix convenience store. He can see him talking to the cashier through the window, inspecting what looks like small white bottles. He’s trying to medicate his cold again. Given what happened yesterday he can’t exactly blame him.

They’ve decided to take an easy day. Elixirs and potions are perfect for wounds, but they don’t fix exhaustion. Noct is still a little wounded, though. Not in body – his leg has healed up perfectly, without a single mark - but in mind. It seems Kimya’s potions are every bit as effective as his, though he can’t figure out why. His still taste better, though.

Cindy pouted when she saw the state of the Regalia, its grill bashed in and the bumper hanging off, the smashed windscreen and a scratch on the hood that looked like a Grandhorn had put it there. He can’t say he’s pleased about it himself, but the Regalia always looks like new after a stay at Cindy’s. The old girl is sparkling now, with new decals and slick midnight-blue livery.

There’s just about enough room for the four of them and Cindy in the tow truck, but the journey had been unusually quiet. Quiet, because Prompto had spent the entire time sleeping against the window on the back seat.

They’d even left him in the truck’s cab while Cindy made magic, but he was going to need feeding and watering eventually. Noct grins as he imagines how salty he’ll be when he realises he’s missed the chance to hover awkwardly around Cindy while she works.

Gladio ambles over from the Culless truck, still laughing over his shoulder at something the vendor said. He shrugs as he approaches Noct.

“No good?” Noct asks.

“Nothing we don’t already have.” The Regalia eases into her suspension as Gladio rests against her. “You gonna wake up Prompto? Cuz you could always leave him here.”

“What happened to ‘no man left behind’?” Noct calls as he crosses the forecourt towards the tow truck.

 

_09.46_

Ignis taps his fingers against his sleeve. He’d been hoping to avoid any more delays given that they’re all exhausted and need to get to the Leville in Lestallum while there’s still light in the day. On consideration he’d relaxed his grip on the purse strings. They all need just a little time to recover.

Prompto leaps the Regalia’s passenger side door and flumps into his seat. Ignis is about to ask him if he plans to treat his own eventual car like that when Prompto lobs something at Noct’s shoulder, waking him from his doze.

Hs response is slow and stunned. “Ow.”

“Sorry! But I figured you could probably do with more chocolate, because who doesn’t need more chocolate?”

“What is wrong with you?” Noct keeps one eye shut. Prompto shrugs, then gets to his knees on his seat. A thought seems to capture him. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, and then he steps awkwardly into the back of the car. Wrapping an arm around Noct’s neck, he squeezes.

“A chocolate bar a day keeps the monsters away. Right?”

Ignis conceals a crooked smile at Noct’s look of alarm and turns back to the road.

“Shall we be off, then?” he says.


End file.
